


Night of Fires

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Halloween 2015 on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:22:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5168777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a child in Nan Elmoth, Maeglin and his family celebrate an ancient festival from Cuiviénen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night of Fires

Maeglin had never liked the night of fires. It was one of the few times of year when all of the people of Eöl’s household were gathered together, and there were few enough of those - only a stable hand, a housekeeper, and a sullen guard or two, as well as a strange old smith. The smith had come with Eöl even from Doriath in his youth, spoke very little and and spent his days making metal hooks of great beauty and alarming sharpness. Usually, all of these people seemed to treat Maeglin with a mixture of caution, reverence and impatience, as their lord’s only son. 

But not on this night. On this night, they all went to the fire pit. On this night, a great bonfire was made, stretching a column of smoke up into the winter sky.

Usually, Maeglin liked the fire pit. It was set in the largest clearing in Nan Elmoth - not that that was very large in comparison to the world outside, he supposed, although really he had no idea about  _what_  that might mean, beyond the scarcely imaginable wonders his mother had told him of - but it was large enough to ignite a blaze without setting fire to the heavy canopy that blanketed the wood elsewhere. It was also the only place in Nan Elmoth where one could see the sky. 

In day, Maeglin never looked up for long there. His eyes were used to the dark, and they would hurt when - on chance or on a sudden wild recklessness - he gazed up into that wondrous, ever-shifting airy brightness. But at night it was different. At night you could see the  _stars_ , sometimes, and that was something that Maeglin never grew tired of. 

He wanted to look up at the stars now, as the people of Eöl sat about the fire, dressed in white cloaks and it grotesque masks of wax and wicker, brightly painted. There were lanterns, too, grinning faces carved into turnips and swedes and even old tree-stumps. They all leered out of the darkness, and though he knew who they were, could recognise the masked ones - he could recognise his father, his mother - they always frightened him a little. 

The fire was ringed by white stones and was bright enough that he saw burning patches imprinted on his vision, leaving him night-blind. That always made him feel nervous,  _for if he could not see then the monsters could find him, if he could not see he was nothing, even his father name, so longed-for, would not fit_ …

Maeglin shook his head, as though to make the thoughts go away. This festival was supposed to banish the monsters from the dark, not to bring in new ones as the year passed into the blackness ahead. 

Like the dark in the time under stars, he knew, which was when this festival had been born. They had needed it then, truly; there had really been monsters slipping through the cracks, he had heard from his father.  _But in the stories, monsters made more monsters, the dark slipping amongst the people, taking them one by one, from friend to friend, brother to sister, child to mother_ … Quietly, he slipped a finger underneath the edge of his own mask, feeling the smooth warm skin beneath, reassuringly his own.  _I will never become a monster_ , he told himself. 

He squinted at the moon, which he could just see, beyond the trees. It was huge and round, almost yellow-looking, and there was no cloud. He sighed, thinking about how if the fire was not there, he would be able to see the stars. 

Someone was singing, and another was playing an old wood-flute. The melody was of the old style, repetitive and lilting, hypnotic almost. He was listening to the music, transfixed, when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. He flinched violently, even as another hand clasped his own smaller, cold ones, quietly reassuring. 

Maeglin let out his breath. “Mother” he said, trying to regain his composure. He must show her that he was grown now, no longer a child. He must show her that he could truly be a creature of the light like her, a valiant hero or a joyful hunter like the ones in her stories, like their own family. Gratefully he accepted the mug of spiced tea she placed in his hands. “Are you enjoying the night?”

She sighed, looking over to the other side of the fire to where Eöl sat in deep conversation with the other smith. “Not really” she admitted, raising her mask and half-smiling at Maeglin. “It’s very cold out here.”

Even with the great fire so near, Maeglin could see their breath in the air between them, lit by the orange glow of the flames. “Yes” he said. “But father said we have to watch the fire burn all night.”

“Of course” she said, quietly. 

Maeglin hesitated for a moment, feeling as though he should comfort her somehow. “Thank you for the tea” he said. And then, “can you tell me a story?”

It was the litany of his childhood, and he knew he was too old for stories, really, but it seemed like tonight her stories of the brightness of her past - that great world full of light - would keep the darkness all around at bay. 

Immediately, it seemed she brightened, though he could barely see her face for the mask; this was what he had wanted. “Yes” she said. “Yes I can.”

Maeglin could not tell, but he got the impression his mother was smiling. 


End file.
